These, then, were Hosley's judges.

"Miss Tescheron, I come to right a great wrong, for which I am wholly responsible; will you hear me?" I asked as softly and politely as the meekest penitent ever tutored for the book agent's business.

"I have no desire to hear you," she answered firmly, but with a slight nervousness betraying the deep interest she denied.

"I trust you will be persuaded to at least hear me, and then—"

"But there is nothing you can say, as the subject I know you wish to allude to is closed. Please do not refer to it." It was a woman's "No."

Mr. MacDonald tilted back his chair and eyed me closely, but not discouragingly.

"You are supposed to deal in justice here, are you not, Miss Tescheron?" I continued, not heeding her frigid, uninviting air. I had planned to deal tenderly with her wound, but soon realized that my sympathetic beginning had proved more irritating than bluntness; accordingly I introduced the spice of severity in tone in equivalent degree as an experiment, and as I proceeded I noted the interest of John MacDonald increasingly reflected in the features of his pupil.

"Justice demands that I be heard. Unfortunately, I deserve nothing here, for I have done about all a fool could reasonably be expected to do to upset my own and others' plans. And now I demand but a few minutes of your time to square the account. My point is that every dog has his day. I shall have had mine as a meddler in the affairs of my friend when I am through here. James Hosley, for whom I appear, is charged with something by somebody, he doesn't know what or by whom, and he was convicted by your father, and the conviction has finally been sustained on appeal to you. As you alone exercise the pardoning power, I come before you to-day to have the case reopened for the presentation of new evidence. Would it not seem ridiculous to blast your lives or even to upset the plans of the caterer now forming for the great event next Wednesday, if on the morning following that date we should read in the papers the true story of this affair in place of the usual formal wedding notice? Would it not seem cruel to have it published that jealousy, founded on love-letters the man never wrote, turned the woman from him at the very altar? Yes, he never wrote a line of that gush—that silly drivel—it was a joke; but it was as nothing to the culmination of the villainy of those detectives who have swindled your father, for it now threatens to ruin two lives."

Briefly I ran over the account of our trip to farther Mount Vernon, and of the effect of the third degree's pressure on Jim.

Mr. MacDonald relaxed control of his dignity, and burst into a hearty laugh. Gabrielle blushed deeply and faltered until I proceeded a few sentences farther.

"Yes, Jim's old love-letters that I wrote for literary exercise years ago, failed to impress the girls, who returned them. At the fire they proved to be fireproof, and fell through the floor. The sneaking detectives found them and brought them to me. Jim is now at my room, completely ignorant of the charges against him, poor abandoned wretch!"

I then subsided and reviewed carefully all the particulars, concluding with the statement:

"I submit to your honors that there is no getting around my proposition that every dog has his day."

As I closed, Gabrielle hastily withdrew. Her face told the story. She passed out, my card tightly held in her hand. I knew I had won the verdict.

Mr. MacDonald chatted with me for a few minutes, and thanked me for my promptness in sending that telegram the night before, for without it the postponement of the wedding would have revealed an absurd situation and held us all up to public ridicule.

"I liked the way you put this thing," said he, as we parted. "Let me see you again."

I now figure that the cash I paid Obreeon I would have won back at that interview a good hundredfold, in view of what MacDonald has done for me since, had there been no other developments.



CHAPTER XXIV

I was not satisfied with my partial victory before the lawyers. I hastened to Fulton Market and there found Mr. Tescheron surrounded by the slippery remnants of a big day's business in cold-storage and fresh merchandise. Here the art of making a three-cent Casco Bay lobster worth two thousand per cent. more on the New York City restaurant table is largely developed. The middleman who stands between the inhabitants of the sea and those of the land is indeed a fisher of men as well as fish. As an Inspector of Offensive Trades, I am ready to testify that the odor of the market is generally an index of the strength of the bank balance. The richness of the atmosphere around Tescheron's office convinced me that Jim could not afford to alienate the affections of such a father-in-law. As I advanced toward the small box in which Mr. Tescheron sat wrapped in his scaly ulster, I caught a glimpse of a live flounder, who appealed to me in whispers, as he made an effort to turn over and find some cooler ice. I did not interrupt him. He spoke as follows:

THE MARKET FLOUNDER'S ICY REMARKS

For Friday morn is hangman's day; Fast in the noose I dangle. At four A. M. the clam I seek, And get into a tangle. Alas! my wish—a one-eyed fish[B]— To find a juicy ration; The clam on high began to die— A sweet anticipation! Beware the scent, tho' hunger groan! My gentle kiss (a fishing smack) Shot far amiss and with a hiss I landed pretty well for'ard. A smack I smote with a fearful thwack, A stunning whack across the back, On the upper deck of the Judy Peck. At noon to-day, the fishermen say, We ornament the table— O, wretched deed!—or chicken feed, Two rods behind the stable.

My purpose was to be serious with Mr. Tescheron. I had fooled him quite enough. He recognized me, and as he was so cool, surrounded by his cracked ice, I did not give him the chance to refuse a hand-shake.

"I came to apologize to you, Mr. Tescheron," I began. "It seems that you can't take a joke and that you flew to Hoboken—"

He reached into a drawer and brought forth a small photograph of Hosley, which he handed to me.

"Yes, I know you seemed to think it was all a joke," he said. "But what do you think of that picture, taken from the Rogues' Gallery?—look on the back."

Sure enough, it was a familiar photograph of Hosley, and I knew the photographer who took it. But this picture was on a small card with no photographer's name on it. It might have been cut down from a larger photograph. At any rate, it was the usual size of the Rogues' Gallery police portraits, and was stamped and written upon the back like the official pictures of criminals. It made Jim look like a thief, and the plate must have been carefully retouched to order. You can buy anything in New York, thought I.



"Do you believe that is a real Rogues' Gallery picture?" I asked.

"Certainly. Here's a dozen of 'em from as many different cities. If you'd gone to the expense I did to get them, you would think they were genuine. Oh, there's no question about it. Strange, how you could be fooled like that! Lived with him for ten years, didn't you, and all the while he was married to that woman down-stairs and was kiting around the country for months at a time, raising hell in Michigan and Arizona along the Mexican border. I think he was planning to do away with you the same as he did with her. It's lucky I broke in when I did and knocked his little plans in the head, so far as my family was concerned." The murder of myself, of course, was a small matter.

"All of these pictures are forgeries," I interrupted. "The photographer where Hosley had his picture taken probably has his price."

"What? You still doubt? Well, you are a crazy man. That fellow Hosley was a great hypnotizer of women and weak men."

I did not become angry at this sneer. No, I was resolved to be patient. I wanted to get him in a frame of mind where he would turn on himself and say, "There's no fool like an old fool."

"This thing was about to come out through the coroner's office, but I settled as soon as I read the first newspaper item—here it is." He handed to me a clipping which Smith had used to clinch the payment of what he (Smith) called bribe money.

"Anybody could make one of those on a small printing-press as easy as they can make a camera lie or lie themselves. That clipping was manufactured, just as that woman in the flat below ours was made to order." I didn't lose my temper as I made this statement.

"But the death notice was in the papers giving the name and proper address. See, here it is, Browning, and your number. Oh, you are hypnotized yet!"

I was indeed surprised at the cleverness with which the Smith conspirators, including Obreeon, had planned to land this big fish—for such he truly was. He never sold a bigger one than himself. They had worked in the dark and could fool him every time by clouding his judgment with fear.

"You spoke of expense, Mr. Tescheron. Would you mind telling me, to satisfy my curiosity, just how much this thing has cost you?"

"Why, you are not thinking of paying it, are you?"

"No, I am sorry to say I cannot, although partly guilty, because I haven't so much money. But really I would like to know. I am amazed at your gullibility—simply amazed."

"Amazed, eh? Just look at these figures and you'll get some idea of the work we have been doing in this Hosley matter." He handed his neatly kept memorandum, which I scanned in wonder, and as we went over it, item by item, I could see the work of craftsmen shaping their clay. It all figured up, including board for his family at the Stuffer House, the payments for Smith's expenses and services, and the "settlement with Flanagan," to about $5,000.

"Mr. Tescheron," said I, "take the advice of one who wishes you well. Do a little investigating for yourself. I did not notify the coroner—I was only joking. Here is the address of Collins; see him, and get the particulars concerning the party at our old home, and then take a run up to this place and see what you think of it."

I handed to him the memorandum from Collins and left, saying:

"This is Wednesday. Think it over for a week and I'll arrange to see you next Wednesday. Then I shall expect to hear, if you are not convinced, that the sharks swallowed you like a porgy."



CHAPTER XXV

When I got away from Mr. Tescheron that afternoon, it was after three o'clock, and I had to see Flanagan.

Luckily I found the coroner at his office and was received by him with that warmth of greeting and cordiality which springs from a political genius, said to be derived by contact with the Blarney Stone. At any rate, it makes its successful appeal to human nature and constitutes the capital of Tammany leaders holding their own against all reformers who fail to take into account the hearts of the poor. There wasn't anything in the world he wouldn't do for me. You may be sure that Jim and I had long ago changed our politics enough to vote for Flanagan, and he knew it. His handshaking, sympathetic attention and practical philanthropy kept him in power, and his record for square dealing in and out of office placed him apart from some of the crew he trained with. As another Irishman, Mr. Burke, has remarked you can't indict a nation, this countryman of his proved to me that it would not be possible to indict an entire political organization outside the broad scope of campaign oratory.

I laid the whole case before honest Tim Flanagan.

"And they were to have been married a week from to-day, you say? Whew! You come with me to see Tom Martin; he'll do anything I say."

It is wonderful how a Tammany Hall leader can help pull a case of complicated love out of the mire of despair, if the villainy runs counter to the law.

Tom Martin was the captain in charge of the detective bureau at police headquarters. If anybody had suggested concerning him that it was possible for a Tammany district leader to obtain a favor in that office involving what might technically be called the compounding of a crime, Martin's icy official rejoinder would wither his antagonist; but this ice could be cut by certain men. Tim Flanagan was one of them. When he and Tom Martin got together on this thing wheels within wheels began to work.

"Certainly, Tim," said Captain Martin. "We'll give Smith a shake-down right here. I know him well. He is rich and will cough it all up when we put on the screws. You and your friend take seats. I'll have him here in a few minutes. Say, that's a lot of money, though—over five thousand dollars, you say?"

I handed Tescheron's exact figures to Captain Martin. We waited about twenty minutes, as I recollect, when a Potsdam giant from County Kildare, the site of extensive greenhouses for the raising of New York cops, brought in the trembling Smith. The startled little rascal looked at me, but did not appear to recognize me. He had been scared to a point I could see where he would give up his last cent for freedom.

"You're at the old game again, Smithy," said Captain Martin. "How much did you get out of Tescheron? I have the figures here; just look it up and tell me—see if we agree."

Smith did not dodge.

"About ten thousand dollars, Stuffer and all," he said.

Stuffer! Five thousand more than Tescheron had admitted to me!

"How much does the interest amount to at six per cent.? Just figure that up on all the payments, and put in Stuffer," directed Captain Martin, not in the least surprised at the admission of another five thousand.

"You'll square me against him?" asked Smith.

"Yes; you bring him here to-morrow, and I'll tell him—see?"

Captain Martin had never heard of Stuffer, but he played his meagre hand with a winning bluff. The boundary line between detectivism and poker is shadowy.

"I meant to pay Stuffer to-day," said Smith, "but I guess he got tired waiting and came to you and squealed."

Smith figured for a few minutes with a small notebook in his left hand, and then wrote on a slip of paper the following summary:

Services and expenses $2,040.00 Stuffer's fake bird collection 5,000.00 Fee to my man for appraisement of birds 50.00 Payment for safe return 3,000.00 Interest on above for two months at six per cent 100.90

$10,190.90

Captain Martin did not approve the summary.

"Smith, don't try to dodge me," said he, sternly. "Put that Obreeon $1,000 item on there, and add the board bill of the Tescheron family in Hoboken for six weeks at $63 per week, making $378—add interest—your subpoena servers kept them over there as your guests, remember."

Smith did not whimper. He took the paper and in a few minutes added $1,391.78, making the total $11,582.68.

I was astounded beyond measure. Flanagan's eyes bulged. Captain Martin was unruffled. He dealt with that sort of deviltry every day, and read the mind of Smith as if it were a child's primer. He gave the impression of knowing all about the mysterious Stuffer feature of the case. If the hotel proprietor had robbed Mr. Tescheron, I was surprised he had not mentioned the matter to me. He said nothing of birds. He couldn't have eaten them, thought I. My curiosity was greatly aroused.

"Mr. Smith, alias Mr. Van Riper, alias Mr. Stewart, what name have you your bank account under, these days?" asked Captain Martin.

"Under the name of William P. Smith, at the Lincoln Bank." He answered without hesitating, being duly impressed by the official atmosphere of the place, whereas I wouldn't have had the thing made public by a regular complaint for all the world.

"Got no blank checks with you, I suppose?" asked the captain.

"No, sir."

"How much of a balance have you there?"

"About fifteen thousand dollars."

"It's past banking hours now, Smithy, so I tell you what you'll have to do. Take these blank checks here and make out one to—"

"Albert Tescheron," said I.

"One to Albert Tescheron for—let me see—for $10,572.68, and one to Benjamin Hopkins for $1,010. You will then have to bunk in here to-night with me until I learn that these parties have collected the money. Then you can go, but you'll have to pack out of town and stay out."

"How would the cash do, captain?" eagerly asked Smith.

"Got it with you?"

"I can telephone for it and have it here in twenty minutes."

"Take this 'phone and do it. We'll wait."

Enough greenbacks and change to make $10,572.68 fell into Mr. Tescheron's hands with a long letter of explanation from me, as he entered his home that night, and I grasped $1,010.

As to Flanagan and Tom Martin—did I treat? Well, I guess so! Do you blame me?



CHAPTER XXVI

The address on my card brought Gabrielle directly to my rooms, and when I returned I found the lovers blissfully united, after only one day of direst wretchedness. They rushed toward me as I entered and doubly embraced me. I was the crowned hero—crowned with more praise than I could well carry.

"How happy you have made us!" cried Gabrielle. "You cruel joker; but we forgive you. Oh, you do not know—you can never know the service you have performed this day. Our lives would have been ruined had you not been here to manage this affair."

"Ben, I forgive you for writing those letters, now. You are the greatest man that ever lived. George Washington couldn't class with you," said Jim.

"Probably not," said I. "I certainly told many a good lie when I wrote those letters. You set me on fire and saved me. I have done the same for you."

Jim was radiant and rosy as in the old days. Gabrielle never looked more beautiful. Wasn't I happy!

We talked it all over, and I laid a wager with them both that Mr. Tescheron would repent that night to Gabrielle before she could tell him of her definite plans. I did not tell them why I thought I was betting on a sure thing.

I carried out telegrams of joy and summonses to the Gibsons and Hygeia.



CHAPTER XXVII

The Hosley-Tescheron wedding was the happiest society event in my life. Hygeia, as bridesmaid, dazzled me into forgetfulness; but I stood up and did my part, nevertheless, with a fair degree of precision, but might have done better had I practiced trying to find a ring in my pocket while wearing a glove. Mr. Tescheron behaved admirably. He and his lordly son-in-law on that day really began to get acquainted. The sheepish look he gave me at the wedding betrayed that my letter with the money had happily convinced him, and also his trip to the little cemetery.

Concerning Gabrielle and Nellie Gibson, her maid of honor, I would need to shower the technicalities of a fashion journal's vocabulary to present a picture of the loveliness wrought by milliners and dressmakers from the choicest fabrics to grace the slender figures of those pretty girls. Mrs. Tescheron's tears were those of joy. My joy was without tears, for the occasion brought a hearty welcome to Hygeia's Connecticut home.

Jim Hosley and I are associated to-day in the management of one of the largest industries rehabilitated by that great executive, John MacDonald, with whom we are on terms of close intimacy. We are surprised at the changes that have come in a few years, and as we look back, we often wonder if the folly of those bachelor days was not after all profitable. Mr. Tescheron has lived long enough to believe it was. To-day he is a charming father-in-law and grandpa, with an improved sense of humor which has robbed him of his keen interest in ornithology, for I heard him say he wished the Stukeville collection would burn up.

As for myself, I am not willing to intrude my family affairs here beyond the statement that my days of gloom are over. I ceased to try, and—but as I wanted to add, Gabrielle is clever at housekeeping along the most approved scientific lines. Cooking she regards as a form of chemistry, and she keeps scales in her kitchen to save good dishes from disaster due to the reckless "pinch of this and pinch of that" system. What a contrast with Jim's system of frying eggs! And the marvel of it is, that, in spite of this hospital-like regularity and method, her little dinners at her beautiful home in our model industrial community are amazingly gratifying—solid in breadth and foundation, and alluringly decorated with the ornamental bisque congealments founded on the froth and frosting of beaten egg and whipped cream. My experience as a housekeeper helps me to appreciate fine work in this department of life. I should say that an epicure would make no mistake in marrying a woman lawyer.

The one hundred and sixty-two letters and fitments I have preserved in a leather-bound scrap-book. I have not the slightest idea what they would be worth in the literary market, but I do know they brought us much joy and sorrow, and I would not part with these flowery souvenirs of the days of youth when all jokes seemed legitimate. They contained more poetry than truth, I fear; but like good fiction, they brought me face to face with some of the most interesting phases of life.

Oh, I forgot to add that Gabrielle's beautiful home was the father's gift to the bride, estimated to cost just $10,572.68, but I know there were many "extras." Was Gabrielle surprised at this? Why, she thinks I am a wonderfully fine fellow, and so does Jim.

What does Hygeia think?

Well—ahem!

THE END

FOOTNOTES:

[A] These cuts were too blurred to reproduce.

[B] Acting under Section 1519 of the Poetic License Act, I have deducted one eye from the flounder. He is about to lose both, anyway.